Title: Bright Shiny People
Author: Su Freund
Email: su.freund@blueyonder.co.uk
Status: Complete
Category: Angst
Pairings: None
Spoilers: The Stargate Movie, Children of the Gods, Cold Lazarus - I guess
Season: Any
Sequel/Series Info: None
Rating: PG?
Content Warnings: Minor use of bad language but no worse than appears in the show (I think).
Summary: Jack is depressed at Christmas time
Disclaimer: Stargate Sg-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © Su Freund 2003
File Size (kb): 34
Archive: Jackfic. Fic_with_Fins Yahoo Group. FanFiction Net.
Author's Note: Thanks to the marvellous Bonnie, my bright and shiny beta, for her help and encouragement. It seems we might have some similar views on the way Jack thinks
Bright Shiny People
Cheeriness surrounded him, a constant reminder of the recurrent ache inside. Bright, shiny people. This was so not his thing. Jack O'Neill sighed heavily and tried to withdraw into himself, turning up the collar of his jacket, digging his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders, and keeping his head down. Every year he thought that if he ignored it, turned his face against it, looked through it and not at it, it would simply just go away and leave him alone. Every year he found it to be untrue.
Damned jingle bells. He thought. Its gets worse every year. He hated Christmas. All the trappings: decorations; trees; lights; carol singing; bright, shiny people doing their shopping, smiling too gaily. All dressed up warmly. Busy, busy, busy.red noses shining as brightly as they were. Waste of money. Waste of time. All these bright shiny people. All their over exuberant kids.
He sighed again. Impossible to ignore it, avoid it or escape it. He really should go home. No decorations; trees; lights; carol singing. No bright, shiny people. No people at all, in fact. Nice, welcoming home.
Each year he fought with himself about being alone at Christmas. Should he try to be sociable, invite people round, something like that? Make an attempt to shut out the loneliness, his repugnance and anger at himself, the guilt, the despair. Or should he stay at home on his own, wallow in it, the self-pity and remorse? He normally chose the latter course. He wasn't very good company at Christmas for either himself or anyone else. He deserved his own company, he'd earned it. Even that self-centred SOB Jack O'Neill wouldn't want to make anyone else suffer him at Christmas.
Sometimes he would hang around the base, making himself a pain in the butt, driving everybody crazy. Irritable, peevish, petulant and being otherwise generally bad-tempered and unpleasant. People came to expect it and avoid him that close to Christmas. Maybe he got a perverse pleasure from it, even though he deluded himself that no one suffered him but him. If not at the base, he would sit at home, drink and get maudlin. He could do maudlin pretty well at Christmas time. He'd had a lot of practice.
Christmas day was the worst. He'd wake early, knowing that the all bright, shiny people would be sitting watching their bright, shiny children opening their bright, shiny presents. There was fun, gaiety, laughter all round. For crying out loud, stop already! The thought made him want to bury his head in the pillows and hide from the world until tomorrow. Tomorrow would see the approaching end of it and he could start breathing an almighty sigh of relief. Then all he had to worry about was New Year.
Even so, he would drag his cranky ass out of bed and make himself suffer. He'd start drinking far too early and far too much. And he'd think about Charlie, and Sara, and regrets. Then he'd think some more. Too much alcohol and too much thinking; a potentially lethal combination. He enjoyed being combustible.
Christmas had been good once. He forgot that too often. Good.when Charlie was alive. He'd liked the decorations; trees; lights; carol singing. The presents. Particularly the presents. Just like any other normal kid. Jack had been bright and shiny himself once, with his bright, shiny family. He'd even dressed up as Father Christmas on more than one occasion. Him! Jack O'Neill! He'd have done anything for Charlie. Anything. But he couldn't do the one thing that he wanted to do most of all. He couldn't bring Charlie back. He couldn't go back and change it. So, he tried to pretend it wasn't there. It hurt too much.
He remembered the Christmas when Charlie got his new bike, the look of delight that spread across his good-looking features. He couldn't wait to get out and try it. Then he'd skidded and crashed into Pete Richardson's car. Jack and Sara had spent most of Christmas day in the emergency room at the local hospital. Sara distraught, Jack comforting in a stoic O'Neill type way. He'd been all right though. That time, he'd been all right. The hospital emergency room held other, more terrible memories too. Memories too difficult to deal with, more painful than one could ever imagine possible. Memories of him, Sara, Charlie, and a gun. There had been so much blood. So much. Too much for such a small boy.
Jack heard a loud noise and looked up to see Father Christmas ringing a bell in his face. "Merry Christmas!" The man cried. Jack grunted uncharitably. Yeah, sure, you betchya.
The only reason he was in town was to buy presents for his team. They did it every year, even got Teal'c into it. Never anything too expensive or flashy, just a small token. He felt obligated to join in the fun but knew he shouldn't really be enjoying himself at Christmas.
His own team were about the only people he could handle around him at this time of year, or certainly with anything approaching good grace. The mood that sent other members of the SGC scuttling for the nearest cupboard to hide in as he passed did not apply with them. Them he could deal with. He was okay with them. At least no more grumpy than usual, and the team was used to that. He could even be witty and charming at times. He certainly knew how to fake it; he just mainly didn't bother at Christmas. He was a master at faking it, ignoring it, and suppressing it.
He turned into the store, dazzled by the lights, the garishness. Why does everything have to be so bright and shiny? He hated this.only for his team.
If not for them, what would his life be like now? Them, the SGC, Hammond, Janet. It depressed him to realise that they were the center of his life. Correction: they were his life, simple as that. What other friends did he have left anymore? When Charlie had died.
Frankly he had been hell. No living with him, no talking with him, no getting through to him. One by one he had lost them all, they'd deserted him. He guessed he couldn't blame them. Then only Sara was left. He had never figured that he would lose her too, but eventually he did. He'd hurt himself as much as her when he had so totally shut her out of his life. She'd needed him more than ever but he'd closed down, ignored her, and pushed her away. He'd been insensitive and cruel, too caught up in his own misery, self blame, self-loathing. He hadn't known any other way he could behave or deal with such a fundamental loss. He would never forgive himself for that, or for Charlie. Never. He didn't deserve redemption for any of it.
Right now, his key objective was to get the damned shopping out of the way and get to the peace and quiet of his own home as quickly as humanly possible. He fought amongst the crowds of bright, shiny people, trying to block out as much as possible. Bright, shiny. Jolly, happy. It turned his stomach.
In the end he found an extremely attractive scarf for Carter; it would look great with that cute blue blouse and cool black leather jacket she wore. He could almost guarantee that she would wear the combo when they all got together for a drink after Christmas. That, at least, was something to look forward to.
For Daniel he found a board game: "Tut's Revenge: Can you find the hidden treasure, overcome the obstacles, defeat your enemies, and get home safely from Tutankhamen's Tomb? For 2 to 6 players." It had little mummies, skeletons, treasures and stuff like that, to collect, to discard, to fight and defend from. Monopoly for archaeologists. At least it had the merit of being vaguely amusing and relevant. Daniel would probably make them all play it with him. Either that or he'd be pissed about it for some reason that Jack wouldn't be able to fathom.
Teal'c? He was an enigma all right. What did you get for the Jaffa that wanted nothing? He settled for a Rubick type puzzle, one he'd never seen before. He figured it would keep T occupied for hours during his downtime on base. Much of that time would probably be spent trying to figure out what he was meant to do with it in the first place. "What purpose does it serve, O'Neill?" Jack could picture him saying that, or something like it. He was sure he would enjoy the puzzle though. Very Teal'c. Perfect.
Satisfied he'd done his duty he returned to the truck; on the way home picked up some beers, whiskey and a Chinese take out for later. During the drive he remembered the time Charlie had asked him if Father Christmas was real. Of course Jack had adamantly insisted that he was. Charlie had looked puzzled at that and commented "You mean real people actually go around dressed like that? Ewww!" And he had turned up his nose in disgust. Jack had thought it hilarious that Charlie's belief in Santa might hinge on his sartorial elegance. Maybe his son would have grown up with good taste. Obviously a genetic throw back; certainly couldn't have got that from his old dad. Nor from Sara; after all, she'd had the poor taste to marry a guy like him in the first place.
Grimacing, it hit Jack that Charlie would never grow up to have good taste or otherwise. You'd think he'd be used to that idea. It was hard to believe that the thought of Charlie never growing up could still hit him with such considerable force. Like a punch in the gut. Or maybe a Jaffa pain strike. Yeah, more like the pain stick. He considered himself an expert on the effects of one of those things. Yeah, more like that.
Most of the time his life wasn't that bad and he could live a pretty normal one. Normal, that is, for a guy who made his living travelling the universe through a huge, honkin' Stargate. The worst times were the anniversary of Charlie's death, his birthday. and Christmas. How could one not think about one's child at Christmas? It's a time for kids. That's what it's all about; unless you believed in the other thing. His belief in that stuff had finally died with Charlie. He'd been raised a Catholic, devout. A few years in the USAF Special Forces, the things he'd seen and done, had made him question a few things. His son accidentally killing himself with his own gun? That had effectively killed any residual belief in a higher power. What God in his right mind would let such a thing happen? Would let a man outlive his own son, be responsible for his death? Make him live with all that guilt and pain forever.
He missed Charlie so badly. And at Christmas.? How could he not remember those great Christmases they had spent together and miss him even more than ever?
He remembered a time when Charlie had been very young, more interested in the packaging his gifts were wrapped in than what was inside. Or when he found Charlie sneaking more than one large gulp of Jack's own whiskey and they'd had to put him to bed, sick and very slightly drunk. Sara had been so pissed with Jack; ranted about why he couldn't just keep his eyes on his own son for two minutes. Or when he'd woken Jack and Sara at one o'clock in the morning, overly excited and determined that it must be time to open his presents already.
So deep in thought was he that he nearly hit another car, swerving aside at the very last moment. Concentrate Jack. Concentrate. If he died now, he knew he wouldn't be joining Charlie in heaven any time soon. Hell. That's where he was headed. That was Charlie's ultimate retribution for his father's thoughtlessness and stupidity, he knew that. Maybe, if he lived long enough he could find a way to redeem himself. No, he could never redeem himself, no matter how many times he saved the planet. Then he grunted to himself as he remembered that he didn't believe in that crap anymore anyway.
Once in his house he locked the door, shutting out the world and the bright, shiny people. Opening a beer he admired his own totally unadorned living room; no decorations; trees; lights; carol singing. No bright, shiny people. No people at all. After a while he opened the whiskey bottle and poured.
Author: Su Freund
Email: su.freund@blueyonder.co.uk
Status: Complete
Category: Angst
Pairings: None
Spoilers: The Stargate Movie, Children of the Gods, Cold Lazarus - I guess
Season: Any
Sequel/Series Info: None
Rating: PG?
Content Warnings: Minor use of bad language but no worse than appears in the show (I think).
Summary: Jack is depressed at Christmas time
Disclaimer: Stargate Sg-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © Su Freund 2003
File Size (kb): 34
Archive: Jackfic. Fic_with_Fins Yahoo Group. FanFiction Net.
Author's Note: Thanks to the marvellous Bonnie, my bright and shiny beta, for her help and encouragement. It seems we might have some similar views on the way Jack thinks
Bright Shiny People
Cheeriness surrounded him, a constant reminder of the recurrent ache inside. Bright, shiny people. This was so not his thing. Jack O'Neill sighed heavily and tried to withdraw into himself, turning up the collar of his jacket, digging his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders, and keeping his head down. Every year he thought that if he ignored it, turned his face against it, looked through it and not at it, it would simply just go away and leave him alone. Every year he found it to be untrue.
Damned jingle bells. He thought. Its gets worse every year. He hated Christmas. All the trappings: decorations; trees; lights; carol singing; bright, shiny people doing their shopping, smiling too gaily. All dressed up warmly. Busy, busy, busy.red noses shining as brightly as they were. Waste of money. Waste of time. All these bright shiny people. All their over exuberant kids.
He sighed again. Impossible to ignore it, avoid it or escape it. He really should go home. No decorations; trees; lights; carol singing. No bright, shiny people. No people at all, in fact. Nice, welcoming home.
Each year he fought with himself about being alone at Christmas. Should he try to be sociable, invite people round, something like that? Make an attempt to shut out the loneliness, his repugnance and anger at himself, the guilt, the despair. Or should he stay at home on his own, wallow in it, the self-pity and remorse? He normally chose the latter course. He wasn't very good company at Christmas for either himself or anyone else. He deserved his own company, he'd earned it. Even that self-centred SOB Jack O'Neill wouldn't want to make anyone else suffer him at Christmas.
Sometimes he would hang around the base, making himself a pain in the butt, driving everybody crazy. Irritable, peevish, petulant and being otherwise generally bad-tempered and unpleasant. People came to expect it and avoid him that close to Christmas. Maybe he got a perverse pleasure from it, even though he deluded himself that no one suffered him but him. If not at the base, he would sit at home, drink and get maudlin. He could do maudlin pretty well at Christmas time. He'd had a lot of practice.
Christmas day was the worst. He'd wake early, knowing that the all bright, shiny people would be sitting watching their bright, shiny children opening their bright, shiny presents. There was fun, gaiety, laughter all round. For crying out loud, stop already! The thought made him want to bury his head in the pillows and hide from the world until tomorrow. Tomorrow would see the approaching end of it and he could start breathing an almighty sigh of relief. Then all he had to worry about was New Year.
Even so, he would drag his cranky ass out of bed and make himself suffer. He'd start drinking far too early and far too much. And he'd think about Charlie, and Sara, and regrets. Then he'd think some more. Too much alcohol and too much thinking; a potentially lethal combination. He enjoyed being combustible.
Christmas had been good once. He forgot that too often. Good.when Charlie was alive. He'd liked the decorations; trees; lights; carol singing. The presents. Particularly the presents. Just like any other normal kid. Jack had been bright and shiny himself once, with his bright, shiny family. He'd even dressed up as Father Christmas on more than one occasion. Him! Jack O'Neill! He'd have done anything for Charlie. Anything. But he couldn't do the one thing that he wanted to do most of all. He couldn't bring Charlie back. He couldn't go back and change it. So, he tried to pretend it wasn't there. It hurt too much.
He remembered the Christmas when Charlie got his new bike, the look of delight that spread across his good-looking features. He couldn't wait to get out and try it. Then he'd skidded and crashed into Pete Richardson's car. Jack and Sara had spent most of Christmas day in the emergency room at the local hospital. Sara distraught, Jack comforting in a stoic O'Neill type way. He'd been all right though. That time, he'd been all right. The hospital emergency room held other, more terrible memories too. Memories too difficult to deal with, more painful than one could ever imagine possible. Memories of him, Sara, Charlie, and a gun. There had been so much blood. So much. Too much for such a small boy.
Jack heard a loud noise and looked up to see Father Christmas ringing a bell in his face. "Merry Christmas!" The man cried. Jack grunted uncharitably. Yeah, sure, you betchya.
The only reason he was in town was to buy presents for his team. They did it every year, even got Teal'c into it. Never anything too expensive or flashy, just a small token. He felt obligated to join in the fun but knew he shouldn't really be enjoying himself at Christmas.
His own team were about the only people he could handle around him at this time of year, or certainly with anything approaching good grace. The mood that sent other members of the SGC scuttling for the nearest cupboard to hide in as he passed did not apply with them. Them he could deal with. He was okay with them. At least no more grumpy than usual, and the team was used to that. He could even be witty and charming at times. He certainly knew how to fake it; he just mainly didn't bother at Christmas. He was a master at faking it, ignoring it, and suppressing it.
He turned into the store, dazzled by the lights, the garishness. Why does everything have to be so bright and shiny? He hated this.only for his team.
If not for them, what would his life be like now? Them, the SGC, Hammond, Janet. It depressed him to realise that they were the center of his life. Correction: they were his life, simple as that. What other friends did he have left anymore? When Charlie had died.
Frankly he had been hell. No living with him, no talking with him, no getting through to him. One by one he had lost them all, they'd deserted him. He guessed he couldn't blame them. Then only Sara was left. He had never figured that he would lose her too, but eventually he did. He'd hurt himself as much as her when he had so totally shut her out of his life. She'd needed him more than ever but he'd closed down, ignored her, and pushed her away. He'd been insensitive and cruel, too caught up in his own misery, self blame, self-loathing. He hadn't known any other way he could behave or deal with such a fundamental loss. He would never forgive himself for that, or for Charlie. Never. He didn't deserve redemption for any of it.
Right now, his key objective was to get the damned shopping out of the way and get to the peace and quiet of his own home as quickly as humanly possible. He fought amongst the crowds of bright, shiny people, trying to block out as much as possible. Bright, shiny. Jolly, happy. It turned his stomach.
In the end he found an extremely attractive scarf for Carter; it would look great with that cute blue blouse and cool black leather jacket she wore. He could almost guarantee that she would wear the combo when they all got together for a drink after Christmas. That, at least, was something to look forward to.
For Daniel he found a board game: "Tut's Revenge: Can you find the hidden treasure, overcome the obstacles, defeat your enemies, and get home safely from Tutankhamen's Tomb? For 2 to 6 players." It had little mummies, skeletons, treasures and stuff like that, to collect, to discard, to fight and defend from. Monopoly for archaeologists. At least it had the merit of being vaguely amusing and relevant. Daniel would probably make them all play it with him. Either that or he'd be pissed about it for some reason that Jack wouldn't be able to fathom.
Teal'c? He was an enigma all right. What did you get for the Jaffa that wanted nothing? He settled for a Rubick type puzzle, one he'd never seen before. He figured it would keep T occupied for hours during his downtime on base. Much of that time would probably be spent trying to figure out what he was meant to do with it in the first place. "What purpose does it serve, O'Neill?" Jack could picture him saying that, or something like it. He was sure he would enjoy the puzzle though. Very Teal'c. Perfect.
Satisfied he'd done his duty he returned to the truck; on the way home picked up some beers, whiskey and a Chinese take out for later. During the drive he remembered the time Charlie had asked him if Father Christmas was real. Of course Jack had adamantly insisted that he was. Charlie had looked puzzled at that and commented "You mean real people actually go around dressed like that? Ewww!" And he had turned up his nose in disgust. Jack had thought it hilarious that Charlie's belief in Santa might hinge on his sartorial elegance. Maybe his son would have grown up with good taste. Obviously a genetic throw back; certainly couldn't have got that from his old dad. Nor from Sara; after all, she'd had the poor taste to marry a guy like him in the first place.
Grimacing, it hit Jack that Charlie would never grow up to have good taste or otherwise. You'd think he'd be used to that idea. It was hard to believe that the thought of Charlie never growing up could still hit him with such considerable force. Like a punch in the gut. Or maybe a Jaffa pain strike. Yeah, more like the pain stick. He considered himself an expert on the effects of one of those things. Yeah, more like that.
Most of the time his life wasn't that bad and he could live a pretty normal one. Normal, that is, for a guy who made his living travelling the universe through a huge, honkin' Stargate. The worst times were the anniversary of Charlie's death, his birthday. and Christmas. How could one not think about one's child at Christmas? It's a time for kids. That's what it's all about; unless you believed in the other thing. His belief in that stuff had finally died with Charlie. He'd been raised a Catholic, devout. A few years in the USAF Special Forces, the things he'd seen and done, had made him question a few things. His son accidentally killing himself with his own gun? That had effectively killed any residual belief in a higher power. What God in his right mind would let such a thing happen? Would let a man outlive his own son, be responsible for his death? Make him live with all that guilt and pain forever.
He missed Charlie so badly. And at Christmas.? How could he not remember those great Christmases they had spent together and miss him even more than ever?
He remembered a time when Charlie had been very young, more interested in the packaging his gifts were wrapped in than what was inside. Or when he found Charlie sneaking more than one large gulp of Jack's own whiskey and they'd had to put him to bed, sick and very slightly drunk. Sara had been so pissed with Jack; ranted about why he couldn't just keep his eyes on his own son for two minutes. Or when he'd woken Jack and Sara at one o'clock in the morning, overly excited and determined that it must be time to open his presents already.
So deep in thought was he that he nearly hit another car, swerving aside at the very last moment. Concentrate Jack. Concentrate. If he died now, he knew he wouldn't be joining Charlie in heaven any time soon. Hell. That's where he was headed. That was Charlie's ultimate retribution for his father's thoughtlessness and stupidity, he knew that. Maybe, if he lived long enough he could find a way to redeem himself. No, he could never redeem himself, no matter how many times he saved the planet. Then he grunted to himself as he remembered that he didn't believe in that crap anymore anyway.
Once in his house he locked the door, shutting out the world and the bright, shiny people. Opening a beer he admired his own totally unadorned living room; no decorations; trees; lights; carol singing. No bright, shiny people. No people at all. After a while he opened the whiskey bottle and poured.